


Not Going Anywhere

by Valthiri



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon verse, Christmas, Fluff, Holdiay fic, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mild Sexual Content, Mild angst? Maybe?, implied bottom!dean, post-season 8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 20:16:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5599396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valthiri/pseuds/Valthiri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is a lot of things, but self-assured has never been one of them. For a man who has given so much, he denies himself more than Castiel can account for. He's tried his hand at listing them: somewhere decent to sleep, attention, clothing he'd mind getting blood on, anything that isn't for Cas in their bed, credit for everything he's accomplished, anything someone else might need someday, sleep. They're all elaborate variations of the same thing. Dean Winchester denies himself worth. </p><p>The months they've spent together so far-- seven, but both of them would deny counting-- have been without exception the best of Castiel's had, fraught with guilt and uncertainty and fear though they've been. Chaotic would be the polite method of describing it all, but one thing has stayed unerringly consistent throughout the whole thing, and that is how fiercely Dean cherishes him and what they've pieced together for themselves. Confidence is outside his means to give, but Castiel can show him what he means to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Going Anywhere

No matter how often he'd preached about staying off the radar, John Winchester had been a creature of habit.

Dad liked the warmer states. Kansas, Arizona, Texas, New Mexico, and Louisiana were all chock full of old Winchester haunts. Too many deaths went attributed to the heat, or what it did to people; in other words, prime country for hunting. They'd seen snow on Christmas growing up, on that shifter job in Minnesota and once in Utah when Dad was after a nest (and then a few times after Sam shipped off to Stanford, not that Dean liked to remember those) but never during any of the important ones. Sam had first found out what it was their dad did in California, the holiday they'd spent together just before he'd gotten dragged into the pit was mild on account of those Pagans.

Now, though, Cas is watching one of the fat, heavy flakes that have been falling on them since they checked in touch down on the windowsill, and this one definitely qualifies as Important.

They hadn't expected the snowfall to be heavy here in Nevada, but it had been coming down hard and fast enough once they'd finished up the case-- some changelings, and hadn't evil kids right around Christmas been fitting-- that they hadn't been able to justify hitting the road in a 45-year-old car without power steering. So, here they are, enjoying their poor substitute for a Christmas turkey (a rotisserie chicken they had picked up from the grocery store) on top of 4-star sheets. Or, more accurately, Dean is enjoying it. Cas, like he has been all night, is staring outside.

It isn't the fancy digs or freak weather that makes it special, though: this Christmas is going down in history as Cas' first. First holiday as a human, first snow fall, first holiday with _him_ \-- take your pick. It's a long list, and the weight of the moment only gets heavier the further down Dean goes.

"It's not going anywhere, you know," he says once his plate's empty (plastic, not paper, in spirit of the holidays), and Cas finally turns around. "The snow. It's still gonna look like _The Day After Tomorrow_ out there in the morning."

"I'd noticed. " The look Cas sends him is unimpressed, finally able to recognize sarcasm with something other than the feigned innocence and obliviousness he used to torture them with, but it's overshadowed by the affection there. "I'm mostly concerned with watching it fall. I've seen it before, but never like this," he says quietly, and nothing else has to happen for Dean to be sweating over the significance here again.

Cas seems to notice, turns his body to give him his full attention, and gives him that look like he's studying him.

Dean Winchester is a lot of things, but self-assured has never been one of them. For a man who has given so much, he denies himself more than Castiel can account for. He's tried his hand at listing them: somewhere decent to sleep, attention, clothing he'd mind getting blood on, anything that isn't for Cas in their bed, credit for everything he's accomplished, anything someone else might need someday, sleep. They're all elaborate variations of the same thing. Dean Winchester denies himself worth.

The months they've spent together so far-- seven, but both of them would deny counting-- have been without exception the best of Castiel's being, fraught with guilt and uncertainty and fear though they've been. Though chaotic would be the polite method of describing it all, one thing has stayed unerringly consistent throughout the whole thing, and that is how fiercely Dean cherishes him and what they've pieced together for themselves. Confidence is outside his means to give, but Castiel can show him what he means to him. 

Made from scrap metal (Cas thought the irony there would be appreciated, if it was understood, and while he knew nothing about cars once he was out of the driver's seat, he knew the model was nice) and polished to a smooth matte finish, the ring in their bag says exactly what he wants to say to the man himself. There's simple things there like the value of the thing itself, but there's a quiet intimacy there, too, laying neatly to be found in the duffle they share. It brings to mind the way Dean had choked when he'd first said the words "our bed," before Cas had laid him out on it and mimicked the reverence in his voice as he went through the list of things he'd learned were Not to Be Asked For. He'd given them all to him, one after the other, until the man was loose and wet-- "like a _girl_ ," he'd grumbled that night, but his tone hadn't been able to hold anything but satisfaction-- and laying relaxed underneath him.

Dean can't read Castiel's face while the man thinks about all of it, and that unsettles him more than the urgency from before.

He's wanted to do something extravagant since they checked into their room to make tonight more than just a substitute for what they were supposed to have at home. He hasn't come up with anything yet. He isn't any closer to figuring it out when Cas comes over to sit next to him on the bed, either, but he does settle down a little as he picks up his plate to set it on the bedside table and make room.

"Are you finished?" he asks as he sits back down.

"Yes, I think so."

"Sorry for the lack of variety in the plate. You know, Sam's only down the hall a little. I'm pretty sure he grabbed some beer or something if you--"

"No, thank you." Cas is quick in declining, and truth be told, Dean isn't surprised. They'd never really talked about it, but since he and Cas had started this thing they have, he's been drinking less and less, and part of it is because the longer it goes on, the less there is to drink. Cas had sniffed out every flask and bottle that he'd ever brought in or found stored in the bunker, and even a few he hadn't known were there. He doesn't mind, in the scheme of things. He still gets the mood to, every once in a while-- less, now that he's sleeping well for the first time in three or four years-- but that morning Sam had nearly _teared up_ and commented on the _non_ -Irish coffee he'd been drinking the past couple months made staying away worth it every time. 

"Alright. No beer, then."

It's then that he remembers the tin of cookies he has stashed away in the bottom of their duffle, an early present to himself.

"Hold on a second. Let me grab something."

Dean shuffles over until he's on the edge of the bed and pulls the bag over to himself, rummages for a moment until he comes across something strange, wraps his hand around it, pulls it out.

They'd packed together (it had been easier that way, with everything in the same dresser, and Cas had so little in way of things that he'd need to take on a hunt that it had only made sense to put it all in one bag), but this couldn't be either of theirs. He stares for a moment, and it's obviously long enough to draw Cas' attention, because he cranes his neck to look over and see what it is he's got.

"Ah."

"What is this?"

The look Cas sends his way is long suffering and a tad bit amused, but Dean needs to hear it. Needs to hear it to be sure that he isn't crazy, at the very least, to know that this really should be in their things.

"It's an invitation," he gets in reply. Out of everything Dean had expected to hear, it wasn't that.

"What?"

"We've been hunting together for the better part of a year now, and I can't count the number of times I've been asked for more than just a first name. It's an invitation to make our lives easier."

Dean doesn't really register what his hands are doing until the box is open and the ring is in his palm. Cas tries to say something about a certificate or something, but he cuts off when Dean thrusts his hand--the one without the ring-- out to him.

"What are you doing?"

"Here."

He wiggles his ring finger for a moment until Cas smiles, understanding, and takes his hand in his own. His mother's ring has been sitting there since he was in his early twenties. It comes off sometimes when he's looking for some tail (or it had, up until about a year prior) and during the time he'd spent with Lisa (too many people assuming they'd taken that step) but other than that, it's been a consistency for him. And now he wants Cas to take it. Fitting, considering all the times he's come back to him.

"You're sure?"

"I can't be the only one walking around with some hardware on my finger, can I?"

"Far be it for me to argue _that_ ," Cas responds, quiet and fond, and that's the end of it. They're both wearing rings, and if there's anyone in the room next door they're going to be complaining about the rocking noises and laughter that goes on all night come morning, but it's an easy transition for the two to make. Cas keeps his face buried in his neck all night, one of Dean's hands on his shoulder and the other holding the sheets, and he's never been more sure of himself as when he rumbles _"I'm not going anywhere, you know_."

"I'd noticed."


End file.
